Here Comes the Sam, or We're Up All Night to Get Bucky
by CaptainShade
Summary: Rating only for violence/descriptions of torture. Post-Civil War. Probably some form of AU, honestly. The cryochamber is stolen from the Wakandan Palace; what happens next? Oh yeah Sam has a daughter named Grace now, but she doesn't show up until later.
1. chapter 1

Bright. Way too bright. And cold. Cold, cold, cold, cold. He could feel himself shivering as consciousness started to return.

"Is this normal?" a voice asked.

"Of course, he was a literal ice box two minutes ago. Just wait until he wakes up, then we can do our work."

Oh, that didn't sound too good. Probably not in the presence of friends then. Was he ever in the presence of friends?

A memory flash. An enemy-former enemy?-and someone who he remembered as Steve. Kindness, and words, then cold again-

Other memories, and he internally cringed at the content of some. Was this really him?

"Hey look, he's waking up!" the first voice said.

"Finally, some action!" the second one crowed. Might just be the two then. Should be simple to get out of here, if it weren't for the strong metal clamps and the lack of an arm that he was just now starting to realize. Those two facts complicated things a little.

"Wakey wakey, Sergeant Barnes, don't want to keep us waiting," the second voice sing-songed. Sergeant Barnes? Oh-he remembered his past life as Sergeant Barnes, decades ago, and pain flashes across his face. One of the men cackled.

He didn't open his eyes. The man met out a growl and slapped him, filling his ears with the crack for a moment. He cracked his eyes open and scowled. "You interrupted a perfectly good nap."

"You've been napping in cryo for two months, it was time for you to wake up. Someone wants you."

So that was why he was cold. "Everybody wants me, so you'll have to be more specific."

"He's distracting us, let's just get done with it," the second man said. He looked younger, less hardened than the other. Brothers, probably.

"Go set up your camera." The man moved in front of him, a hungry look in his eyes. He could see it coming before the man even moved, the first punch to the gut. Another. Jaw, nose. Jaw. Gut. Stop.

Panting, blood dripping down his face. "Is that the best you can do?"

"I'm so glad you asked that." An evil grin, stereotypical. He walked to the side, grabbed a crowbar. Bucky rolled his eyes, breathed through, went back to look at whatever memories popped up-he stopped that after half a minute. When the dude was done, he could feel the warm liquid down his back and side, the sharp edge of the crowbar stained with his blood.

"I've had so much worse, you know. You don't stand a chance."

He growled again. "Shut it. Is the camera ready?"

"Definitely ready, cuz! Whenever you're done killing people…"

He rolled his eyes. "Turn it on."

Bucky grinned. "Aw, are you getting something to remember me by?"

"I said shut up! Look, you have 48 hours to claim your precious Winter Soldier. I know you're still out there, and if you're going to get anything done, you're going to need him. We'll give him back in 48 hours, and all we need is a little sum of five million. Should be easy for you."

"Oh, five million? You love me that much? You really shouldn't have."

Slap. "He won't be coming back unharmed, however. We need our fun, too. If you do not show up in the parking lot of Rundell's in Berlin at 0100 on Thursday, we will assume you no longer want him and will create our own soldier out of him."

Rush of memories. _Hydra. White. Metal. Electricity. Jumbled words. Freight car. Pain. Murder. The Winter Soldier._ "No, no, no!" he said, voice growing in intensity from a whisper, eyes wide, chest tight. "Please no, not again!"

Crowbar landing hard on his head, dazed for a moment. "Come get your boy. Hail Hydra." The camera shut off.

The next two days were blurred by panic and pain. New memories. Whips. Taunts. Electricity. Video of what he did, of what they did to him. Broken fingers, ribs, needles, drowing. They forced a muzzle and metal collar on him after a day because every time anyone got near he would bite and headbutt, since he couldn't move his arm or legs.

But finally, at some point, they came in, the older guy with a key. The chains were unlocked and they led him outside by the stupid collar. Three hours in a silent car, chained in the back, not able to talk or move any more than half a foot in any direction. After that, half an hour on his knees in a parking lot. Humiliation and torment to his injured rib cage. Pete, he had learned the older one's name was, ripped the muzzle off after the time ended.

"Looks like Hydra doesn't want you around anymore."

"They don't deserve me," he weakly retorted, and smirked.

"Phantom's gonna program the snark out of you, you can be sure of that. You're gonna be the Blazer now."

He rolled his eyes. "That's a stupid--"

He was cut off by the collar jerking him upward. "You better show some respect. I could kill you tight now!"

"Congratulations. So could I."

He stared at Bucky for five seconds before jerking on the collar again. "Come on, we're meeting someone else."


	2. Chapter 2

Electricity shooting through his skull. Doing everything not to scream. _No. No._

" _как вас зовут!?-" What is your name?_ a voice shouted, heavy Russian accent.

His memories were growing fuzzy, but he could still remember…"My name is Bucky."

The electricity was turned on again. He grasped at the armrest on the chair, where he was restrained with metal clamps. _Can't show weakness. Can't let them win!_

" _как вас зовут!"_ And again.

"My name is still Bucky!" He was repeating it like a mantra so he wouldn't lose it. He had forgotten why they were doing this and who they were, but he could still remember what. Erasing his memories. Reset his mind. He couldn't let them. No.

They amped up the electricity, and he could barely hear the building high-pitched whine before he could hear nothing over the sound of his own screaming. Burning, scalding, overwhelming _pain_ , everywhere. _My name is...my name is Bucky!_ Almost lost it that time.

They finally turned it off, making it last _so_ much longer than the other times.

" _как вас зовут?"_ He couldn't quite...remember. It was there somewhere. Somewhere. What was it? B...He squinted, trying to remember. Bucky!

He tried to speak, but all he could do was pant and whimper for a few seconds as the electricity shuddered through him, an echo of its earlier intensity. "B-Bucky…" he whispered.

"Это, кажется, не будет работать над ним, сэр," a voice buzzed from the background. _It doesn't seem to be working on him, sir,_ his brain fuzzily translated.

The shouting man sighed and rubbed his temples. "Попробовать наркотики'" he finally said. _Try the drugs._ Bucky closed his eyes, trying the keep the tears from releasing.

"Но сэр, они никогда не проверялись!" one of the others sputtered. _But sir, they have never been tested before!_

There was silence until people started moving. Footsteps, a door swinging shut, mechanical locks springing open. Someone pulled him off the chair by the arm and he finally opened his eyes. They forced him toward a metal table, but he flipped one of the men and pushed another out of the way, shoving his way to the doors. There was a sudden hum of electricity behind him, but before he could react another jolt of electricity was pressed to his neck. White hot pain streaked through his body, and someone shoved him against the wall. He squeezed his eyes shut and gritted his teeth, not willing to let the scream out. After a few seconds, the cattle prod was removed and he slumped to the floor, numb, breathing hard, little unavoidable whimpers escaping.

They jerked him back up on shaky legs and dragged him, half-stumbling, back to the metal table. They slammed him down, a needle jabbing into his vein before he could struggle. He winced as the thick, cold liquid pushed through his veins. As soon as most of the hands left him, he rushed to pull the needle out with his teeth, and he managed to dislodge it and stick it into someone else before they realized and came after him again. Two people harshly slammed his head and wrist back down on the table and locked metal restraints on him, preventing any movement. An oxygen mask was forced over his mouth and nose, white gas filling the mask. He held his breath until a fist slammed down on his lungs and he gasped, trying to gulp in much-needed air as his muscles spasmed. Once he finally got a breath, the gas filled his lungs and he choked, his lungs feeling like a fire in his chest and his struggles futile as the gas took effect. His muscles tingled, numbing with the paralytic, but the pain in his chest spread with the drug. The needle being replaced in his arm was barely noticed amidst the blood rushing in his ears. It was taking all of his effort to remain breathing with the gas paralyzing his lungs, so he just closed his eyes and let whatever was happening happen-for now, at least.

There were a few voices, but he refused to listen, intent only on seeing what memories he could still bring up.

Warrior King and Black Panther King T'Challa, arguably the most powerful person in most of Africa, was definitely not wanting to make this call. It had been two days since he found the cryostasis chamber gone, and he had waited until after he searched all of Wakanda and the surrounding area, and confronting a few governments that had previously expressed interest, either in using him or killing him.

And there was nothing.

No signs of who or what had taken him, no chatter from other countries, no witnesses. The only way he could have been taken was if someone was on the inside helping. And that means one of the palace's trusted servants was a traitor.

He had done all he could before he had to suck it up and make the call to Director Fury.

"Director Fury, I have some news. Is Captain Rogers present?"

" _No, but just tell me. I'll tell him when I get the chance."_

He sighed heavily. "Sergeant Barnes is missing, along with the cryostasis chamber."

There was a moment of silence. " _How does somebody steal that without setting off any alarms?!"_

"I feel they may have had inside help from one of the servants. Until I find out who, this has to kept secret from the rest of the world. However, you may notify whoever is left of the Avengers, and they may be able to help."

" _Find out who the traitor is and I'll take care of things on my side."_ The phone clicked off as Fury hung up.

For the fourth time that hour, King T'Challa sighed long and heavily. This was definitely one of the times he wished that his father was still alive to give him guidance, because he wasn't really sure how to go about finding the traitor. Maybe secret listening devices? Cameras? Then those in the castle wouldn't even know that he was spying on them, and once he found the traitor(s), he could confront them and hopefully get Sergeant Barnes and the chamber back to the castle before too much harm was caused. But where would he get the equipment without looking suspicious? Well, he was a king; surely he could make a disguise and go out of Wakanda to find some. Maybe even find and eliminate the Wakandan black market.

He had options; he could do this.


	3. Chapter 3

Steve Rogers had been a frail, sickly kid who's best friend was a hunk. His parents died, and his father had died in war. His best friend made it into the unit his dad was in, and after 5 tries, tiny Steve Rogers had been enlisted and finally made it to the his father's and friend's unit, the 107th. But before the 107th, after enlistment, he was chosen to be a science experiment and became Captain America, the strong, fast, hardy person who was very physically unlike his former self, but so much more mentally. After he found his friend again, he went on to create the Howling Commandos, taking down Hydra. His friend had not-really died, and was actually molded to become the Winter Soldier. Steve not-really died a few weeks after his friend not-really died, and woke up 70 years later. He fought his former best friend before realizing who he was, and so he stopped fighting him, and his friend ended up living in Romania for two years out of Hydra's hands.

So, a lot of strange, unthinkable things had happened to Steve in his life. However, none were currently as incomprehensible as what Director Nicholas Fury had just told him.

Bucky Barnes, after being put in cryostasis again as requested by the man himself, had just been taken-with the cryostasis chamber!-from the most unbreakable place in Africa, possibly in the world.

"Is this some 21st century April Fool's kind of thing? If it is-"

"Captain Rogers, I assure you, this is not a joke."

It took a moment to sink in. "What exactly are we doing to fix it, then?"

"First, Black Panther must find the mole in his castle that helped out whoever it was that wanted Barnes. Once he finds out who it was, we have to go find Barnes, and I figure you're going to be first to volunteer for the mission, which is why you don't have to bother; I already put you down. But right now, the best thing to do would be to stay here and not go there yourself and possibly scare the mole into hiding."

That was not what he was looking forward to hearing. He needed to help, as soon as possible! He had to get Bucky back, couldn't lose him, not again. Not after the first time and nearly a second, to Zemo.

But he understood. He couldn't do anything with the possibility of being noticed by the mole; but maybe there was something he could do…

"Thank you, sir. Was that all you had for me right now?"

"Yes, it was. Now go away and find something to do. By the way, there is a possibility I won't notice if a few more Hydra facilities get wiped off the map."

Now, that was another suggestion. He grinned, thankful for the opportunity. "Thank you sir!"

At least the Hydra star was gone.

But of course, the symbol of his new captors replaced it.

They had unsuccessfully tried to rip the rest of the old arm off of him, resulting in their current occupation of readying for a second try.

When he woke up the last time, it took what felt like hours to remember what had happened to him. He could barely remember anything before that, just random snippets. Once they tried to pry the arm off, it brought up a whole new set of memories, which is why he could remember the red star. Still couldn't remember who Hydra was, or why he seemed to hate them so much. One thing he knew for sure, he didn't like the new people, only because he still remembered the day-the time?-before, when he was awake last time with the electricity and drugs and ugh, he really didn't want to go back over that.

He was breathing heavily, trying not to react to the pain currently coursing through his ribs and shoulder blade. That arm was attached very well, the only good thing he had to say about Hydra at this moment, and it would be very difficult to get it off.

Someone approached him with a very intimidating-looking blade, and he automatically tensed in the metal restraints, pulling at them and managing to lift up off the table a little, attempting to move to the side, away from the dude with the knife. Another pair of hands shoved him down again, easily fought against. The oxygen mask was shoved over his face again, the white gas filling the mask and choking into his lungs. He shoved the others away in a panic-he didn't want to forget again, didn't want to be vulnerable, attacked, turned into their monster-fought back against the restraints with everything he had, felt the bruises and blood on his wrists as the metal ground into them, but he couldn't stop. Stopping meant giving up. Giving up meant whatever he did was all his fault. He couldn't have that on his conscience, not again.

He watched the man on the ground get back up and turn a knob, and the feeling from the gas grew stronger, so much stronger, and then he couldn't move his fingers, his hands, his arms, anything. He couldn't move, couldn't fight, and the suddenly the best he could do was keep breathing, seeing, not closing his eyes and giving up.

The man with the knife cut down his ribs. He winced and an involuntary whimper made it way into the air. He could just barely feel the warm blood pouring out of the slit, onto the table, surrounding him. Another slice, on his shoulder, ending right by his ear, another sound of fear escaping. He heard a whoosh of air right beside him, saw an orange flame in the hand of the man in the white coat. It approached his ribs and his mind went fuzzy.

Heat. So much heat. Burning flesh, cracking bone under the heat. Pain. Dripping metal, smell of blood.

Intense pressure, pulling on what was left of the shoulder. Bones cracking. Excruciating pain, screams from nowhere and everywhere.

Cold air rushing through his body, chilling him, causing him to shake. More heat, boiling metal pouring over his skin, his ribs, his shoulder. Screaming again, growing hoarser every time.

Blackness.


	4. Chapter 4

He woke up suddenly, a gasp tearing at his raw throat. He had remembered something new, went to write it down, but he couldn't move.

Wait, why was he writing this down again? And why did his throat hurt so much?

No memory came up to satisfy the itch for _why_. There was...nothing? That wasn't normal.

There was something cold around his wrists, around his ribs and mouth and ankles. He tried to shift positions from the terribly vulnerable position he was in, crouching against a concrete wall, balanced on the balls of his feet, and his arms up against the wall, leaving him unprotected. The cold bits were chains, he found out, chains and clamps to keep him in place, keep him from protecting himself against whatever would happen. He desperately tried to think back to remember what put him in this position. Nothing came. Nothing came. No memories. No faces. No names. No places. He couldnt even remember his own name. _Whatismynamewhatismynamewhatismyname_ -

Something exploded in his brain, sudden clamoring of everything in his mind, headache blossoming behind his eyes growing, _hecouldn'tTHINK-_

Memories appearing and neurons firing, names and faces parading past and getting mixed around. Lights snapped on around him, and he squeezed his eyes shut. Concentrating, sifting information, finding his name. One shot out ofvthe blankness, dark and obvious and very present. Was that his name?

Alexander Pierce.

No. No. There was a gravestone with that nane. Unless he was in Hell, he wasn't Alexander Pierce. And this couldn't be Hell, it was cold.

With that thought, goosebumps sprung up on his right arm, shivers running gbrough his spine, a draft noticable on his mostly v bare skin. He turned his head to the left, trying to figure out why it wasnt cold. He was met with silver plates, unfinished circuitry, clawed fingers-

He had a metal arm. Why did he have a metal arm? _A train, snow, screams, a hand reaching for his, rocks, cliff face. Blood, white, antiseptic, lab coats,_ Hydra-

A screen clicked on, pictures appearing, flashing through. It started decently, normal pictures, then optical illusions, hypnotising images. He shut his eyes, desperate to not change with whatever they were trying to hypnotize him with, then sound, terrible noises of screaming and bones cracking and knives sinking into flesh. His eyes flew open again, trying tk distract himself from the overwhelming sound. The noise shut off, replaced a second later by a straight white noise tone.

He leaned his head against the wall in relief, staring at the pictures for a moment more before looking away again. He sunk into a half-daze, ignoring the pain in his left shoulder as he struggled to keep his eyes open.

A door slammed open and shut, and he snapped his eyes open, straining to see what was happening. A man was dragged into another cell, shoved forward, and chained up like he was. He was shouting incoherently, angry, unwilling. A red cloud began to surround him, and the mans eyes turned red, but then he screamed and the crackle of a shock collar was audible to his over-sensitive ears.

"Gotta teach you some respect!" a uniformed man shouted at him, eventually turning off the shock and dragging him to his feet. The unwilling man was beaten and thrown back onto the ground, new bruises and whimpers evident in the echoey chamber. Red-his new nickname-was chained the same way that he himself was, arms up, crouching uncomfortably. Red groaned and leaned back against the wall.

"We'll get back to you later," the violent man grumbled, then started walking in his direction. The metal door of his cell was unlocked, and the man clomped into the cell with two others in thr same uniform following after him.

"Your name is now The Asset-"

"No, its not. My name is...my name isn't that," he explained. If they knew who he was, maybe they would do something different. Something besides what they did to Red. Surely he didn't belong in a cell. Cells were for prisoners, for criminals, for monsters. Surely he wasn't-

Mr. Jerk growled low. He shrank back as much as he could, not wanting the punishment that Red got. "Look. I am not in the mood for this. I am very angry today, and I will hurt you if you don't comply. You need to repeat everything i tell you, and believe it, and know that you are very insignificant to me right now. In fact, im kind of hoping you don't comply so i can express my anger in a very fun way. So either do this easy, and believe everything i have to tell you, or do it the hard way and i will persuade you anyway. Your name is the Asset."

"No. No, it's still not," he insisted, scared but still unwilling to lie. "I dont know my name, but that's not it."

The man lashed out, kicking him in the gut and knocking the air out of his lungs." "What is your name?"

He struggled to remember his name. His real name. J? It had a J in it somewhere. At the beginning. Right? It was a J? He couldn't remember he couldn't remember he couldn't remember no no no he couldn't say that. He was not the Asset he was definitely _not_ the Asset because he couldn't belong to them. He didn't belong to anybody. Another kick to the face, and blood sprayed on the man's clothes as his nose broke. He couldn't breathe right and that was no good. "What is your name?!"

"NO! No, no!"

The man shouted the question over and over, punctuating each question with a kick. After about the 6th one, he-he really wanted to remember his name-yelled with each kick, pain shooting up wherever the kick landed until he couldn't feel anything but the pain. He panted and whimpered after the kicks stopped, trying to regain his breath. Tears were already rolling down his face, and he tried to blink them back as the man leaned over him. "Oh, did wd make you cry? I'm so sorry-not!"

The violent man backed up and motioned to the other two with him. One of the men stepped over to where he was crouched, stone-faced. The other left to unlock the door again. The violent man whispered with the guard for a second before leaving the cell. He left, and the cell door slammed shut as he was left alone with his thoughts and the guard.

Nicolas J. Fury strode down the hall toward the meeting room with purpose. "Rogers!" he barked. Steve turned to look at him, snapping to a position of attention before awkwardly relaxing again. "We intercepted an old ransom video sent to Hydra. You might want to see it."

He turned a laptop around and pressed a button. The video started to play, showing a man standing beside a captive, rough-looking James Buchanan Barnes. He was smirking however. Steve thought that was pretty typical.

"Aw, are you getting something to remember me by?

"I said shut up! Look, you have 48 hours to claim your precious Winter Soldier. I know you're still out there, and if you're going to get anything done, you're going to need him. We'll give him back in 48 hours, and all we need is a little sum of five million. Should be easy for you.

"Oh, five million? You love me that much? You really shouldn't have."

He slapped Bucky, and Steve tensed, growing angrier as the video went on. "He won't be coming back unharmed, however. We need our fun, too. If you do not show up in the parking lot of Rundell's in Berlin at 0100 on Thursday, we will assume you no longer want him and will create our own soldier out of him."

Steve closed his eyes to prevent tears as Bucky freaked out. "No, no, no! Please no, not again!"

There was the sound of metal on skull,, and Steve winced. "Come get your boy. Hail Hydra." The video stopped playing, and Steve tried to regain his composure before looking back up at Fury.

"Where's the footage from Rundell's?" he asked, knowing they would have already found it.

Fury pressed another key, and another video popped up. Security camera video, the very edge of a van without plates, and three people. He could immediately guess which one was Bucky-the one who looked significant worse than on the video before, with a mask on and metal chain around his neck. From the blurriness of the video, it was hard to see specific damage, but when jostling left Bucky's shirt up a little, his ribs were much darker than they should have been; at least cracked, if not worse. His fingers looked twisted and purple to his enhanced vision, and he was more shaky than he should have been. The two men had tortured him for no other reason than to have fun. His stomach flipped as rage and sadness built within him, disgusted at what had happened to his best friend. Fury took the laptop back, turning the video off when he deemed it necessary for the fate of the table.

"Hydra never showed up. The men loaded Barnes back into the truck an hour later and drove off. Nobody could tell where they went; they disappeared off the cameras, which leads us to guess they had more training than at first obvious. Either that or they were hired by someone else. That is all we have for now. I will call you if we find any more information."

Steve nodded and briskly stormed out of the room, angry and looking for punching bags to smash. Fury sighed and rubbed at his eyebrows, a stress headache beginning to form. This would take a lot of paperwork to clear up. And a lot of time to find Barnes.


	5. Chapter 5

They still didn't know anything else about where Bucky could be. His best friend gone for what, the fourth time now? That's got to be some kind of record. Yeah, he could see that call now. " _Hey, is this Guinness World Records? Yeah, I've lost my friend four times, once to death and three times to a villain force, is that a record?"_

Perfect. Just perfect.

Another flying punching bag brought him out of the daydream. It fell to the floor and sand poured out of the holes in the front and side. He was sp tired of _losing_ people. His parents, his friend, some of the Avengers. Plus all of the people he had on his conscience when he was in the Army and the Avengers. Too many people had been lost already; he couldn't stand to lose another!

But for right now, he was needed elsewhere. Right now, he needed to help destroy the final Hydra bases awakened by the attack on Vienna. They were making their presence known, sending soldiers into Wakanda and he was ready to go defend the palace, interrogate Hydra soldiers, and infiltrate bases. The plane left in about two hours, and he was definitely ready to go. Anything to get closer to Bucky and get revenge on Hydra.

Three days, give or take. Three days stuck in this dungeon with the guards changing every 12 hours. No sleep, no food, no water, no movement. They were trying to weaken his resolve, get him to confess to being their tool when he still wouldn't. Most likely, the next thing would be torture. However they would do it, it would probably be worse than the kicking. He still had horrendous bruises from that, healing not being aided by sleep and nutrition. They were fading though, and with that the hope of escape.

The door slammed open against the wall, and the three men from earlier stormed in, the leader in front with a briefcase. The restricting mask fell off with the twist of a key, and he gulped in air. As the other chains fell off, he collapsed to the ground on his hands and knees, relieved to finally be out of that position. The collar around his neck began to tighten and pull, and he briefly resisted, finally attempting to stand when the pressure began choking him. Pins and needles rushed through his numb and shaky legs, making it difficult to stand.

"Look, buddy, we can do this the easy way or the hard way." He had strode over to right in front of where he was standing, hands braced around the collar to keep it farther from his throat. The man jabbed at his chest to make a point. "So far you've chosen the hard way, but that can change now if you want it to. I'm completely prepared to go with the hard way. But you can still go easy. So, what'll it be? Is your name the Asset, or still no?"

He tried to contain his fear, having no memories to back it up but feeling it nonetheless. Actual terror. He couldn't go along with this, something in his mind was screaming for him to tell the truth, to find relief in not being their tool. He closed his eyes, searched for a reason why he shouldn't give up. Just one, and he would say no. Were there even any reasons? Anything? Any more memories there, besides the tangled up and broken names and faces?

A face was brought to the front of his thoughts, a short, skinny blond. A friend? Someone he knew. What was his name, Scott? Sam?

 _Steve._ Steve was this guy, a friend from...some other time.

He fought a lot. Never gave up. What would he think if he gave up? He couldn't give up.

There was a much-needed swell of hope in his chest. He could survive this. If tiny, sick Steve could survive life, and not give up, he wouldn't give up. He would survive, find a way out. He would make sure of that, for Steve.

He opened his eyes, a new determination in them.

"No. I am not your tool. I'm not yours anymore. My name is Bucky, and this is for Steve!" He threw his flesh hand out, palming him in the nose and immediately breaking it. Blood spilled through the man's hands, hurriedly clamped over his nose, and over his face, dripping down his neck and clothes.

Electricity whipped through him then, burning his muscles, and he barely contained the scream. The current lasted forever, until he was kneeling in the floor from the pain. It finally shut off, and he felt hyper aware of the rush of his blood in his ears, the too-fast pounding of his heart, his labored breathing, and bruising knees. He panted, trying to catch up from the electrocution.

But yeah, when the man looked up from his bloody and broken nose, a look of almost fear in his eyes, he was glad he hadn't given up.

A few hours later, he wasn't so sure. Rudy, he found out his name was, had been meticulously cutting him with a dull knife and flicking some kind of burning liquid into the cuts, so that every move ached. Not that he could move much. He was rechained up with his ankles secured to the floor and his hands above his head so that he couldn't strike out at Rudy anymore as he approached him with the dull knife, cut into his arms or ribs or something with the look of a hunter inspecting his prey, then stepped back to yell insults and questions at him. It was altogether exhausting and painful, like a thousand papercuts being doused in alcohol one by one.

"Okay, I'm bored. What else do we have, men? Something that will make him scream."

"I'll never scream for you," he spat at Rudy.

"Oh, we'll see about that. Men?" he asked again.

"We have electricity," one of the others suggested.

"Ugh. Too stereotypical. Something worse."

"Uh, we did bring the whip." the other voice said.

"Closer."

"How about the water and electricity whips?"

"Ooh, now you're talking. That's good. Where is it?"

"Cell behind."

Rudy chuckled. "This is gonna be fun to watch."

They warily unlocked the chains again and dragged him forward and out the door, to the next cell back. Rudy shoved him onto his knees on the floor and chained his wrists and ankles on the floor, while the other men prepared what he guessed were the torture tools. A tub of ice water and a couple of terrible-looking electric whips, or whatever they called them, were set in front of him, presumably not for his use for Rudy's use on him.

Without any warning whatsoever, he was shoved hard into the tub of water face-first, panicking as he couldn't stop himself with his hands. He gasped as the icy water came into contact with his skin, and choked when it forced itself into his lungs. He jerked, trying to get out, as his heart was pounding faster and faster and coughs were more torturous than the one before and he _couldn't take it anymore and_ -

They dragged him up out of the water, still choking and hacking water from his lungs. There was a thump on his back, and he coughed more water out. He just barely got a full breath in before they shoved him under again. He didn't breathe in this time, thankfully, but he heard a hum of electricity and then excruciating pain across his shoulder blades. More panic, pain. Jerking in the water. Coughing. Pain in his chest. Tug on his collar to pull him out. And the process repeated so many times he lost count.

Bucky was barely standing, blood pouring from the whip marks along his back. He didn't know how he could blood to lose, he thought absently as the whip crashed down again. Pain pain pain pain screams. His own or not? From the way his throat burned, probably his own. He couldnt tell anymore.


	6. Chapter 6

He woke up strapped to a table by metal clamps. He tried moving his left arm, but it wouldn't budge-they must have shut it off, not currently connected to his neurons and no strength in that arm or shoulder. There was an IV connected to his right elbow, filled with blue...something.

Oh. So the drugs were already affecting his brain, not that he could really care right now…

He woke up again later, the drugs almost empty. He frowned at that. He loved the _peaceful_ feeling they gave him. He could almost forget about what had happened before. What had happened before…

His brain couldn't quite remember exactly, but he saw mean, cackling faces, a guy named Rude or Ruddy or Rosy or something. He remembered screaming, pain, electricity. _Ugh._ Fear. That was the most present emotion. Fear. Through all the memories he was half-recovering, all the pieces were covered with fear and dread.

At least now he didn't have to fear…

He had no idea how long it had been, but probably longer than a day. He wasn't getting tired of these drugs at all, loving then in fact, and waiting for the next addictive dose. The IV bag was almost empty, and usually someone would have came by now to replace it. But, oh well, someone should come in any moment now.

Nobody came in, and now he was huddling in the corner fighting off a withdrawal migraine. It was all another ruse to try and get him to talk. He had already had dry heaves, since there was no food in his stomach, and was sweating like...something that sweats a lot.

Speaking of sweating, he was also drowning. There were no grates in the floor, they flooded the chamber, chained him to the ground, he couldn't move, couldn't breathe, couldn't-"

He threw out a hand, felt only air, no water. Nothing. Hallucinations had begun.

Terrified shrieks rang from his cell, amplified by the concrete walls. Everybody he had killed was trying to kill him, trying to stab him, strangle him, drown him, shoot him, _torture_ him in every way he had to them. Surrounded, couldn't get away. He hurt _so_ much, couldn't get away from the pain, the overwhelming sense of loss and hurt that the loss of the drug caused. He wanted to give up, wanted to give in, say the words, admit to being their weapon, to finally being theirs.

"I am the Asset," he repeated after Rudy. "I belong to Scorpion. I am their weapon, their tool, to use, abuse, and dispose of as they please. I am nothing, a killer, and am no longer my own."

He had no idea chairs could become robots. But as they forcefully shoved him into the white metal chair, the clamps came down over his head, arms, legs, and chest, and the whole chair leaned back, the whirring and clicking of a badly-disguised machine evident to his over-sensitive hearing. Four needled appeared in mechanical pincers, each carrying a kind of tracker chip. He tensed as they moved and stopped two centimeters from the back of his calf, his upper arm, his left ear and left eye. Another set of mechanical arms held his eyelid open so he couldn't avoid the needle. He pulled on the restraints, jerked on them desperately until they snapped and arms stopped in the last two centimeters. Safety measures. He broke off the other mechanical arms, throwing the needles on the ground while definitely not paying attention to the movements of the other scientists. The syringes smashed on the ground, and the tiny tracking chips rolled out. With the other restraints still on, he couldn't quite reach the lower needles, so they would probably still activate and work. Another oxygen mask approached his face, and he knocked it out of the way. A hand came to pin him down, and he fought it, not going to let himself submit this time.

Somebody started shouting. "You are the Asset! You belong to Scorpion."

Two people appeared on either side of him.

"You are their weapon, their tool, to use, abuse, and dispose of they please."

He strangled the one of the right and snapped the neck of the one on his left, still refusing to give in.

"You are nothing, a killer, and am no longer your own."

Suddenly he was weak again, headache and everything-ache and hallucinations. He saw millions of soldiers crowding the small room, all with tranquilizer guns and real guns and not afraid to use both of them.

Distracted for a moment long enough for the mask to be forced over his face. He struggled, trying to get the mask to fall to the side, but it refused to move, somehow. Some kind of tech. He couldn't do this again. The white gas filled the mask, and he refused to breathe in until a hand pounded on his chest again, forcing him to breathe in, and his struggles slowly decreased, panicky as the paralysis came into affect. He watched blurrily as the other scientists quickly resecured the mechanical arms, and prepared new needles and trackers. He stared at a point past everything, trying to disengage his mind as the needles moved toward their places. He barely felt the needle points, able to dissociate enough that he didn't have to think about what was going on. While he was still away from his body, he watched as they drilled a hole in his skull, implanting more tech, but he couldn't care right now.

Steve had finally gotten up the guts to watch the other videos sent to Hydra. The torture videos. Four days of humiliation, of spirit breaking and pain and _torture to his best friend._ He hated it, hated it _so_ much, but he couldn't stop. Couldn't stop watching the video, couldn't bring himself to do anything else, because if he wasn't watching, he wasn't there for him. Couldn't identify triggers if he didn't watch the footage. Couldn't mentally answer any of Bucky's screams for Steve, couldn't figure out how to punish himself any better for not taking care of him better.

Fury walked in on him watching the drugged hallucinations for the fourth time, the terror in his eyes and his desperate flailing making Steve's heart throb.

"Cap, you can't keep watching this. It's not good for morale."

"There's no one attacking right now, what's the problem?" he asked flatly.

"The problem is you. You could be helping interrogate or find the mole, but instead you're down here doing nothing but punishing yourself. Find something else to do. I'm cutting your access to computers."

His eyes went wide. "What? No, come on. I really don't think you want me interrogating anyone."

"That is not the last thing I want. I dont care about paperwork. I want Barnes back just like you do, Cap. Go and help Romanov."

He grinned thinly, kind of glad for the opportunity to help with something important. "Yes, sir."


	7. Chapter 7

He was woken up by a harsh slap across the face. _Alexander Pierce_. _He was in the chair, mission report, the man on the bridge,_ Steve! _Shock shock memories whirling, flying out the window. Gone gone gone!_

"No!"

"Shut up," someone growled. Hands shoving him back, clamps on his arms, and broken memories pouring in.

"Please, no," he pleaded weakly, but the faceplate never came down.

"желание." _No. No. Not again. Not him again!_ Anything to block out the sound of voice. Anything to stop the transformation.

"ржавый." He started screaming, trying to block out the sound. Hands on his ears, block his voice even more, so there was no chance he'd turn back into their soldier.

The leader stopped talking, waiting semi-patiently for him to stop before he continued with the words. "печь." As soon as the leader had started the word, he began screaming again, _no_ in all the languages he could remember, avoiding Russian. A few of the bystanders rushed forward, trying to pull his hands away from his ears and stop him from screaming. One slammed a hand over his mouth, and he bit down hard, warm blood filling his mouth as the offending pinky finger was crushed. The man screamed in agony, and he threw the other two men off his arms, the one to his left flying into the wall.

"рассвет." A new man approached him with a mask and a cattle prod, jabbing it into his chest. He let out a strangled scream and convulsed with the shock while the man forced the mask over his face. He tried to fight it, but he couldn't quite control his spasming muscles because of the electricity and jf he could just get his right arm to move-

The mask snapped into place, molded over his mouth and nose, tight enough that he couldn't open his mouth. The prod was removed and he collapsed against the back of the chair, breathing hard, shaky and sweaty.

"семнадцать." He tried to stop listening. Tried to block it out, make some noise to where he couldn't hear, but his throat was raw and the sound of his voice seemed to fill up the entire room. He couldn't. He couldn't resist. He was going to turn into the Winter Soldier again and he couldn't even fight it. He couldn't move, couldn't scream, couldn't do anything. The man with the mask pulled a lever, and the metal restraints clicked into place. Memories jerked back into a place, another chair in another place where programming and forgetting happened.

"доброкачественный." He whimpered, not meaning to let it out.

"девять." He choked down a sob.

"возвращение домой." He could hardly breathe through his constricted throat, tightening with fear.

"один." The sob came out.

"грузовой автомобиль."

It lifted its head, looking to the left of its main handler's eyes. It didn't look them in the eye.

"Солдат?" The voice in the back of its head screamed his protest. This was the voice of James Buchanan Barnes, or Bucky, the former inhabitant of its body. The Asset knew its body had been taken from someone else, but to complete its mission this body had to stay its. It ignored the screams.

"Готов к выполнению," it said. Or tried to say. There was its mask, but too tight to say anything. Too molded. At least in the other mask it could talk when the mission required it. Had it had other missions before this?

Irs handler spoke again. "Its mission is to fight in a kill battle. The Asset will fight to the death and when the others are dead it will kneel on the floor and wait for instructions."

It had a mission it could carry out. This was good. The man sobbed in the back of its head, but it still ignored him. It couldn't let anything come between it and the mission now.

One its handlers pushed a lever up, and the metal restraints clicked open. The Asset stayed where it was, however, not endangering its handlers, for it remembered the punishment from the last time it put them in danger. Two others pulled it up to stand and kept a firm grip as they led it to another larger cell. There were 3 other Assets there, one more being walked up to the cell. It looked around slowly, analyzing the room and memorizing its surroundings. Its handlers forced him on his knees, stepped back, waited for the others to do the same. Once the other Assets were on their knees in their corners of the room, the handlers behind each of them said, "начать." Begin. The Asset jumped up from its position, readying itself for the fight. It quickly analyzed the other Assets and found the weakest one, decided to attack lowest first. It rushed to the man, feinting left and attacking to his right, distracting him, using their reflexes against him. One other joined the two, also attacking the man, sweeping his legs so quickly that the man went down, and the Asset slammed his head onto the ground once, twice, three times and hit him in the chest, metal fingers outstretched. It pulled his heart out of his chest and threw it on the ground next to it, still watching closely enough to be able to block the oncoming foot with its metal hand, twisting and slamming the second man on the ground. The man jumped up quickly and kicked out again. A woman joined the scuffle, pursued by the fourth man, and vaulted onto the Asset's shoulders, squeezing its neck with her legs and slamming its head with her elbows. It fell, controlled, to the floor and slammed the woman against the ground, attempting to get her off of it. It bit and scratched, growing desperate as it's air was being cut off, and finally bucked her off. It flipped over and crushed her throat with its metal hand, coating it with even more blood. She gasped a few more bloody breaths in before falling silent. It whipped around to face the third obstacle to its mission, and received a punch to the face for its trouble. The man in the back of its head grumbled about it, saying something snarky enough to distract him for another few punches, finally shutting him up and fighting back until it caught a good enough punch to kill.

Its head suddenly burned, crackling pain, n-not unders-stood, w-w-w-w-

 _New mission parameters._

 _Escape._


	8. Chapter 8

Time slowed down. Seconds ticked by like minutes and no one else was affected. It could see every attack before it happened, every electric baton swinging in defense as slow as molasses, and it was able to weave between people and sjove away from the crowd, hitting when necessary and killing one to fulfill the mission of escape.

As soon as it made it up the stairs and through the security doors, setting off a multitude of alarms in its wake, the headache came back.

Grew.

Disappeared.

It had no mission. It panicked-could not panic. No mission. It paaanicccc#/keee***** ddd…

"Hi!"

Voice located-position 6. Voice categorized-no threat. Weapons-none. Young female voice. Was she its mission?

Where was it? Sensors engaged-miles from home base. At least 20. Time-unknown.

It whirled toward the voice and waited for orders. It needed-could not need-needed a mission.

"I'm Natalie. What's your name?"

Name? It had no name. Names signify emotional attachment. Weapons do not have emotions. It was the Asset. Its handlers thought of the Asset as a weapon-they had called him their favorite weapon. Emotion detected-unknown. Was that it's name? The Asset?

Acceptable. She was its Mission. It was her Asset. It was to keep the Mission safe. It needed-could not need-needed to keep the Mission safe.

It set one of its knives on the ground, pushed it toward her. "It is your Asset," it said in a hoarse voice.

She screwed up her face. Emotion detected-confusion. "That's not a name. And that's too dangerous for me to have. Mommy said so. Do you wanna go home and get some food? My daddy is making food tonight, and I'm hungry."

Its mind whirred again. Humans needed nourishment, often in the form of "food," to remain alive. Weapons had no need of "food," but there was danger to his mission present and less at an average place of residence, or "home." to fulfill the mission, it needed to take its Mission to het place of residence so the Mission eas safer. It could protect its Mission better there.

Its Mission will only go to his residence if it accepts the offer. "Request acceptable."

Emotion detected-confusion. "You talk funny. Come on, home is that way." She pointed down the road and started skipping.

Emotion detected-happiness. It easily caught up with her. Step length matched.

They reached the house quickly. It entered first, checking for threats and concealed weapons. The Mission was not old enough to own weapons, so any weapon on the premises would be a threat, except those that belonged to the Asset.

Two people appeared, position 10 and 11. Weapons-one concealed handgun. Protection weapon likely. Parenthood likely.

"Who are you and what are you doing here?" the male stated. Emotion detected-unknown. Threat status-unknown.

"It is your Asset," it repeated.

"Honey, that's...uh, let's go to the kitchen."

Its superior hearing could pick up what they said, even then.

" _This guy was the Winter Soldier. I don't know if we should help him."_

 _"He obviously doesn't remember things. He's lost and injured and doesn't remember to hurt us, followed our daughter home and is going to protect her. He's okay right now."_

 _"Fine. We can help him for tonight, but tomorrow we need to let him leave."_

They walked back into the hall, the female leaning on the male, the male curling around her protectively.

"Look, you can stay here for the night and we will help you. Do you need something? Hungry, thirsty?"

"The Asset has no need."

The female turned to the male. Emotion: worry. "Hun, he's bleeding. We have to do something."

It almost put a hand to its side, where it had ignored the feeling of blood dripping down its skin. One of its legs gave out, and it tried to stay upright, slowly collapsing onto one knee. It tried to remember when that happened, thought it might have felt a thunk when it was completing its escape mission.

The male attempted to help it stand up, but it got up on its own, refusing help from the one he was assigned to protect.

Injuries: blood loss, gunshot wound to the lower right abdomen. Injuries will heal themselves fully in 18 hours if bullet is removed quickly.

"Bullet must be removed if mission is to be fulfilled." The male nodded and guided him, detached, to a couch. It began digging into the wound with his clawed left hand.

The female put a hand on his right clavicle. "No, we can do that. You need to let us help you, because you may get infection and die, and then the mission wouldn't be completed." It did not still its effort. It was not able to become sick.

The male returned with a large pair of forceps and loomed over it on the couch. The man tried to shove its metal hand out of the way, and it complied, unresisting. Resistance will not fix anything.

The man dug around in the wound, and it refused to show pain. Pain meant weakness. Weakness meant punishment. It must not be weak.

Its breathing became heavier. The man dug in the wound, searching for the bullet, finally pulling it out and throwing it on the ground.

"Bullet's out, bud," the man said gently. He retrieved antiseptic from the ground beside him and readied to pour it over the wound. "I'm gonna do this now, and it's gonna hurt, but don't punch me, okay? If I know you right, you're probably used to pain anyway."

He poured the antiseptic fluid over the wound, and it burned. It refused to show pain. Pain is weakness. Weakness means punishment.

The man bandaged the wound and stood fully. It stood and bowed its head in the direction of the man. "The Asset thanks you. It is well to be your Asset again," it rumbled in its low tone.

The man began to push him down again. "No, not yet. We are safe right now. You need to sleep. Eat something. Get your strength back."

"It has not lost any strength. It does not eat. It must continue the mission."

"Look, you need to sleep in order to heal. You need to heal in order to continue the mission. So, sleep is vital to the mission."

It pondered this a moment, flexing his metal fingers. "Objective accepted." It laid down on the couch once again and swiftly fell asleep.

The Asset awoke, sitting up. There were people. Threat likely. Time-0345. Mission parameters: protect the Mission. Status: unfulfilled.

It crept toward the voices, ready to strike. They approached, position 9, and it quickly killed the two that appeared, twisting around and throwing punches at the ones who appeared behind it. More soldiers flooded the room, and it was still winning, then it felt the butt of a gun slammed on its head and was knocked forward, the headache growing and morphing into something more.

He woke up out of his stupor, seeing soldiers surrounding him. What had he gotten into now? And how was he out of the Hydra base-no, it wasn't Hydra, it was Phantom this time, whoever they were.

Where was he and what the crap was going on?

"Mission: kill the parents of Natalie Roman."

He blanched. And made the mistake of speaking without thinking. "No!" He must have been hit on the head _really hard._

Something in the lead soldier's eyes flashed dangerously, and he swallowed nervously. He heard someone approaching from behind, but he didn't turn around, monitoring the man's progress until he snapped around and drove into the man's knees, briefly noticing something being thrown to the man on his other side. The thing was thrown over his face and he was jerked back a little before he surged forward, hearing a grind-crack noise as the man's shoulder was ripped out of place. The mask fell off, and he jumped up, ramming into the man's injured shoulder with his own body and knocking him to the ground. The man screamed about his shoulder, but Bucky was already turning to go after the next man. Someone from behind hit him again and swung the mask around his face, swiftly buckling it as pages rustled in the background.

"желание." He charged toward the voice, swinging at his jaw and connecting harshly with a pop.

"ржавый." A different soldier was speaking this time, but before he could get his hands on him, two loops of rope were thrown around his wrists with deadly accuracy, and they tightened as several soldiers pulled on them, forcing him to the ground.

"печь."

The ropes were cutting off his circulation, and his hands were getting number, but he gathered all his strength and launched himself at the soldier, landing a solid kick to the chest that left him sprawling, not able to breathe. The bad thing is, with his wrists awkwardly behind him, he was unable to land on his feet or prevent his shoulder from cracking out of place. He landed on his back on the floor, the air instantly knocked out of him, his lungs spasming out of control. He couldn't move.

"семнадцать."

He was going to have to kill people again.

"доброкачественный."

Even if he didn't know who they were, that still hurt.

"девять."

He finally got his breath back, slightly panicky breaths, and just laid there, knowing there was very little else he could do.

"возвращение домой."

That thought didn't stop the fear.

"один."

He closed his eyes.

"грузовой автомобиль."

It snapped its eyes open, standing and staring in the direction of the other Assets.

"Mission: Kill Natalie Roman and her parents."

One soldier held out a gun, and it ignored him, still willing to kill them with its bare hands, as a soldier should be.

It swiftly entered the parents' bedroom, refusing to think about how he knew where it was, and crushed their windpipes in their sleep.

He returned downstairs where Natalie Roman was crying and staring with wide eyes at the other Assets. Emotion detected: fear.

There was another voice in the back of his head, screaming for it to stop everything, for him to take back control, and it attempted to ignore the voice. As he grabbed the gun and pointed it at the girl's skull, a strong headache began to form. It continued to ignore the headache, but hesitated in shooting the girl.

"Солдат?" the lead Asset growled. Emotion detected: fear. If it did not complete the mission, it would be punished. It really did not want to be punished. Mission critical.

It retrained the pistol on the girl, once again attempting to ignore the voice in the back of its head.

" _Don't do it!_ "

Ignore. Mission critical.

" _Please, stop!"_

Ignore. Mission critical.

" _You know her! They saved you!_ "

Ignore. Mission critical.

He pulled the trigger, threw down the gun, and sprinted out of the house.


	9. Chapter 9

He woke up in a cell, chained up by his wrists (again), standing in the middle with his arms above his head. This was made extremely uncomfortable by the fact that his shoulder was still out of place and already tingly and numb. It was also very cold, because he was left there in only his boxers. There was somebody behind him.

"Mission report."

"No," he said indignantly. He had made it his purpose to make life harder for Phantom agents. Of course, this usually made life harder for him as well, but oh well. At least he was making it harder on Phantom. He really didn't want to be the Blazer.

A taser buzzed and then shot out at him, the leads burying themselves near the bullet wound-wait what?-and the electricity ripping through him. He jerked and convulsed with the shock, biting his tongue so he wouldn't scream and make the punishment worse.

The shock stopped. "Mission report."

He grinned and spit blood at the man's feet. He had bitten through his tongue, and it was bleeding now. "I don't remember."

He hung his head as the trigger words were read again. There was no one he could kill now, except the Phantom agent, and he honestly didn't care as much as he should.

"Mission report."

The Asset looked up and slightly to the left of its superior's eyes. It was in a vulnerable position, but if needed it could still fight. It did not try to tug on the chains to gauge their strength.

"Mission: Assassinate Natalie Roman and parents. Mission successful. Male and female parents killed from a crushed windpipe. Child killed from a gunshot to the head."

"Actually no, Asset, mission unsuccessful. And for that, and for lying to us, you will be punished. Guards!"

Two more people came in the cell. They walked around front, carrying a whip.

It closed its eyes, previously convinced it had successfully completed its mission and rocked upon finding out it didn't.

"What did it do wrong?" it said in a gravelly voice.

"What did you do wrong? Seriously?" He chuckled. "I'll tell you when we're done here."

The only emotion it was allowed to feel was shame for when the mission was not completed. It felt nothing. Something was preventing it from feeling ashamed. The voice in the back of his head laughed joyfully, and it didn't know why.

The whip cracked down on its bare skin, and it refused to show pain. Pain is weakness. Weakness is not permitted to be shown by the Asset. It is the Asset. It cannot respond to pain.

It stood still.

It counted the whip strikes. 20.

It listened when the handlers told it what it did wrong.

"You didn't kill the girl. That's what you did wrong."

It hung there, unashamed.

"Cap. There's someone you need to meet," Fury said, striding into the briefing room.

Steve almost snapped to attention, but resisted. "Who is it, sir?"

"She's currently in the hospital. Natalie Roman. Survived a gunshot to the chest at 6 years old. Her family saved Barnes after he got shot but the girl got shot by the Winter Soldier."

"And she's still alive?" he near-whispered, eyes wide with shock. "Did she see where he went or who took him?"

Fury held up a child's drawing of a five-point flame. "The soldiers' uniforms had this symbol on them. We believe their organization to be Phantom, a neo-Nazi radical group just formed in the last few years. We had no idea that they had the tech power to be able to steal the cryochamber or keep Barnes for this long, or we would have looked into them earlier, while we still had a chance."

"You mean...you have no way of tracking them now?"

"The higher-ups barely knew they existed, since nobody decided to report them to us. So we don't know where they originated or where they are stationed now, because there are several facilities that have the power to run a cryochamber. However, we can go to Wakanda and see if King T'Challa has ever seen anybody with this symbol on them, either as a tattoo or as an extra uniform. Agents Coulson and Hill have high hopes for this strategy."

"And you?" Steve asked warily.

"I've never gotten my hopes up for anything in several years."

He nodded briskly. "That's reasonable. Okay. I'm choosing to hope for the best. When are we leaving?"

"Plane heads out to Wakanda in one hour."

"I'm going to talk to Roman first. See if she has any other information that might help, or if she's even awake."

"Good luck, Cap."


	10. Chapter 10

He knocked on the door of the room in the kids ICU and opened it. Luckily, the girl was awake and playing with some piece of tech on her bed, instead of asleep. She had thick bandages wound around her chest, and her long dark hair was falling around her face. She looked up at him with a curious expression. He put on his most child-friendly smile and sat in the chair by her bed.

"Hi," she said, as adorably as he expected.

"Hi, Natalie. My name is Steve. I have a few questions for you about the people who came into your house last night."

"Are you Captain America?"

"Yeah. The first guy, the one you met walking home, he's my friend. He was my best friend when I was a kid like you, and when we grew up, he got lost. Some people found him and turned him into a mean person, a lot different than when we were friends. I found him, but some people kidnapped him again, and so I'm trying to find him again. Did you recognize any of the people that were with him later?"

"Yeah, from the TV. How did you know my name was Natalie? Can you read people's thoughts like me?"

"Somebody told me your name was Natalie Roman, the guy who was here earlier that you drew the picture for. Have you told anyone else that you can read minds?"

"No. Mommy told me not to. Do you know what happened to my Mommy and Daddy?"

"No, I'm sorry. I don't know what happened, but I'll find out for you, okay?" he said, his heart sinking. They were probably dead, knowing the organization and situation.

Just another two lives on Bucky's conscience.

"Can you tell me any names of some people that you recognized?"

"No, I don't remember their names. My Daddy might, though. They knew who your friend was. They called him Winter or something. Mommy was scared at first, but she wanted to help him. She didn't want him to hurt me, but I knew he wouldn't. He wasn't the same person when he hurt me. He was Winter that time. I could see the change in his mind."

He blinked. Huh. That was interesting.

"Look, I have to go because I know someone who might know where the other people went. The people who turned my friend into Winter." He almost choked on the last sentence, barely getting it out through his tightening throat.

"You'll find him, I promise," she said, grinning widely.

The next time he woke up, he was laying in a glass box of some kind.

He sat up carefully, trying to figure out where he was.

There was a viewing chamber above him, and cameras in each of the corners of the box. It was barely big enough for him to sit in. There was a vent below him, feeding in oxygen.

He jumped as a voice rang out, echoing around the glass walls. "Experiment 1, code number 3984879-Hugo-342. Begin."

Something below him began humming, something in the vent. There was no gas, no weird scent or anything, but he could start to feel tingling in his limbs. The tingling turned to pins and needles, which turned to actual shooting pains that could be ignored easily enough, except for his increasingly-upset stomach. This should not be happening.

Except. Radiation poisoning.

Experiments with Hydra taught him enough about radiation poisoning, especially the fact that he was not immune to it, whatever Phantom thought.

His heart picked up as he realized he might actually die.

He started pounding on the glass wall with his flesh hand, still not wanting to break the glass, just get their attention. Not that it wasn't already on him, but still.

"Hey! Hey! I'm not-" He coughed, the shooting pains spreading to his lungs and his stomach threatening to spill bile onto the vent on the ground. "I'm not immune! I'm-" He retched and coughed again. "Stop! I'm not immune!"

The humming sound stopped, but none of his body's reactions did. The vent turned on again, sending a blast of cool air through the box, trying to vent out the radiation before they opened up the box.

He slumped against the wall, still coughing. The air was too cold, sending goosebumps down his right arm.

Finally one of the walls slid up and he crawled out, getting as far from the box as he could. Leaning on the wall, his coughs slowly decreased, and a few of the Phantom scientists rushed to where he was sitting, taking his vitals as he shoved them away and tried to stand. His mind was clouded by the radiation, but he still knew that they were bad. Any white coats were bad and trying to turn him back into the Winter Soldier.

Wait-

Who?

Oh _no_.

As he tried to pay attention again to what was happening, he felt one of the scientists pulling a needle out of his right arm. They were putting him under again, to do…something that he couldn't think of.

He couldn't bring himself to care. His eyelids dropped, and the world turned from grey to black.


	11. Chapter 11

After he woke up, the next day was a haze of needles, pain, and relief. A few words were picked up here and there about poison and certain animals that he couldn't really think of right now, but most were lost.

And then the trigger words again.

"грузовой автомобиль."

It was directed towards the high-security truck outside, along with several of his handlers. After a while, it's handlers in the back of the truck ordered it to get on its knees. It reluctantly obeyed, not wanting what came next but not willing to disobey. Instead of being punished, however, they pulled out a knife and went behind it, slashing it's Achilles tendons and hamstrings. It was not able to scream, but if it's muscle control were any less, it would have reacted. Instead, it just stayed there quietly, waiting. It could feel itself losing blood, but it knew it would heal before blood loss became critical. It's knees and muscles quickly gave out, and it fell forward, catching itself on it's hands before it hit the ground.

Its handlers, without saying a word, pulled his wrist out from under him and slashed there, also. It briefly questioned why it's handlers would attempt to get rid of it, but it stopped thinking like that. It can't question an operation it knows nothing about.

The van doors opened suddenly, and one of its handlers slapped it before shoving it out of the back of the van onto the pavement. It was too weak from blood loss to fight, and so it just skidded a few feet before rolling to a stop. The van sped off, and it knew that his mission to its handlers was done. Also that there was a 60% chance of death with its current injuries. It should not make an attempt to stand with its injuries, however it had a bunker close by that had enough to sustain it for a month. Not much, but enough.

It attempted to stand, using the dumpster beside it to help. It didn't make it up onto its knees before its legs gave out again and it hit its head on the dumpster hard enough to knock it out.

The whole plane ride over to Wakanda was passed in tense silence and worry. Worry for Bucky, for T'Challa, for everyone left at home, for the mission. They needed to find out if T'Challa knew the symbol, because that would be the only way they would finally find him and be able to take out the Phantom group.

Once they landed, the ride to the palace was mostly a blur, Steve's thoughts racing and the ransom and torture videos replaying themselves in his mind.

Luckily, Fury knew this and was on top of things, not letting himself get distracted.

"Do you know this symbol?" Fury asked King T'Challa.

"I've seen it before, yes. A few of my servants have that symbol on a jacket of theirs. Who does it point to?"

"Phantom," Steve replied, finally trying to pay attention. "They've been under SHIELD's radar for a few years, but we think they've been around for longer than that. We also think they were the ones who took Buck-Barnes to recreate a soldier for them."

T'Challa nodded. "The names of the servants were Akimchola and Laboiye Azikowe, and Zechariah Balewa. I will find out where they have gone, unless they have removed their trackers, and report back to you where I think their base is.

Steve sighed in relief. They were so close to finding Bucky again. So close, and yet so far. "Thank you, King T'Challa. Thank you," he whispered, not trusting his voice.


	12. Chapter 12

It, _no, he_ , ITS eyes snapped open, closing just as fast when the sun was too bright. He, _it_ , he had a headache and its, his, _its_ clothes were soaked in dried blood. His blood? It, _he_ , didn't know. From the way _his_ , its, legs and ankles roared and itched, probably his, _its_ , own. A voice in the back of its head insisted he take over now, that there was no danger to its mission-which was nonexistent-and begging it to let him out. Mission parameters: there was no mission. No mission?

It let the other voice take over.

He jumped into action, tried to hide itself among the dumpsters, shivering from blood loss as his legs were slowly healing. They tried to kill him, tried to get rid of him, because he was making himself too much for them to handle. They weren't as brutal as Hydra, weren't as controlling, unwilling to give up an asset like him.

No. Couldn't think like that. Couldn't give his other self a foothold to take control this time. He hated losing control, hated the aftermath that came with it, hated when he had to beg to regain control.

A black van suddenly drove up, swiftly backing up and almost hitting him if he hadn't dove to the side quickly enough. People jumped out, and his alter clamored to take control, but he tamped it down, not willing to lose control again just when he had just took himself back. He focused more on his alter than the others in the van, and so they grabbed him, trying to drag him into the van, and he finally fought back, punching somebody in the face, kicking another in the gut and slamming him against the dumpster, coming to life in the fight. Somebody threw down a grenade, and it went off, deafening and blinding him. He struggled to regain control of the situation, fighting to open his eyes and clear his vision, and shook his head, trying to orient himself again. He was shoved back into the van before he could fight, and his mind shut off as his actions became automatic.

He woke up later in another alley by a different dumpster, memories of a scrawny blond kid scratching at his brain. He didn't think about that, instead realized there was a crashed and exploded van not ten feet from him. Remembered his last moments before losing control. The van, the fight, the grenade. Then the Asset took over, fought back, crashed the van, and barely made it out before it exploded, evidently jerking himself back to his body and knocking him out.

He sighed. Things were getting complicated again.

There was nobody around, obviously, so they were either dead or had run off to a safehouse somewhere. He hadn't seen anything in the van that was useful for surviving, and even if he had it would be blown to bits by now. They had only found him because of the trackers that Phantom had apparently put in him. He tried to remember where, and a memory popped through the fuzz. Right after the torture, four needles in a robot chair, and he had freaked out, breaking the restraints and robot arms. Then he had dissociated after they fixed it, barely feeling the needles or the drill.

Right arm, right calf, left eye, left ear.

Ugh. That's going to hurt.

He started with his calf, finding exactly where the bump was in his leg. It was slippery with blood, though, so that made it rather difficult to find. But as soon as he did, he dug at it with clawed fingernails, gasping occasionally at the pain.

Memories flashed in of the van. He dug harder, frantic, finally finding and pulling out the tracker chip. He crushed it in his metal fingers and threw the pieces out across the alley before starting in on his bicep.

The chip there was deeper, harder to get at than the one in his leg, and he had to stop afterwards and breathe through the sharp needles of pain. He was still using his right hand, his flesh hand and fingernails, to dig at his skin, but he would have to reach across his body to get the ones in his ear and eye. No way he would be able to do that.

Alright. Use the metal claws, then. Not the best option, but effective.

He scratched at his ear, stopping a few seconds in to check his progress and breathe. He didn't want to scream so nobody could find him, but he might once he started scratching in deeper.

He started up again, lasting longer before coming back with bloodied claws and shaky breaths. He swallowed heavily a few times before continuing, a soft groan escaping once.

He heard cars passing the alley, and his heart sped up, remembering the van again. He clawed at his ear with renewed vigor, not stopping as his breathing turned heavy and he finally found the tracker. That went crushed and thrown across the alley.

One more. Come on, you can do it. You have to.

He breathed in deeply. Once. Twice. He flexed his fingers on both hands, curling them up so tightly the knuckles turned white, and relaxed.

Finally, he reached up towards his eye and steadied himself. Then, in one fluid motion, he ripped the front part of his eye off and crushed the tracker. There was a muffled scream, obviously coming from him.

He panted, shaky and whimpering. But it was done. His face burned from the pain of using his claws, but at least they wouldn't find him now.

No. There was one more, wasn't there? He was sure there were trackers in his arm. There were trackers in the old Hydra arm, so Phantom would be stupid to not put trackers in his one.

A van pulled into the front of the alley. Black, windowless. No front plates. Not good.

He tried to stand up, escape the only thing on his mind. He frantically pushed himself up, using the dumpster way too much. He unsteadily half-walked, half-crawled to the back of the alley, and wrenched himself behind the dumpster.

The arm had to come off. That was what was leading them to him. He couldn't be captured again no no no no-

He began ripping at the arm with his right hand, using the wall of the alley to chafe at the metal also. This arm wasn't as strong as the Hydra arm, so after a few moments, pieces began breaking off. He put his hand at his left shoulder, breathed deeply, and started pulling with all his strength. Not that formidable at the moment, because of blood loss, but still pretty present. The metal dug at his shoulder, but he kept pulling, only letting out a whine once the skin started ripping. He felt something give in his shoulder, felt the burning fire of a broken collarbone throughout his body. His breathing turned hard and fast as the pain shot through his arm and spine.

He waited until it let up to try again.

This time, he went in with all the grace of a bulldozer, and nearly screamed when the arm finally came off at the shoulder. He ripped it apart, bracing it between his knees, and crushed all the trackers he could find. There was a beep from somewhere in the alley.

"It stopped working. He's crushing the trackers! But he's still in the alley somewhere, I'm sure," a man said. The person walked around the large alley, searching for signs of the lost soldier.

Without thinking, Bucky pushed himself farther into the gap between the dumpster and the wall. This, naturally, made noise, and then everything was silent. Boots crunched on gravel. He could hear the steady breaths of several men in the alley, could hear his own weakly pounding heart. Another person started walking with the first man, heading steadily toward the dumpster he was slumped behind. The footsteps stopped. The dumpster made an awful creaking noise, and Bucky nearly fell over as the metal he was leaning on was taken out from under him.

"Gotcha," one of the men said, grinning cruelly. The two hauled him up onto unsteady legs, looping his arm around one guy's neck as the other dug a syringe full of drugs from his pocket. Not again!

His legs gave out then, sending him crashing to the ground, taking one of the guys with him. At least he could still take people down in this condition, even if it was just an accident.

"He's too far gone, sir. Our tech can't fix this. Maybe Hydra and Phantom had the scientists to fix him, but we don't. We should leave him here." The needle slid into his neck and he jerked away, head held still by the man holding the syringe. The cold liquid forced itself into his veins, making him shiver.

"Did I ask for your opinion? I didn't think so." Bucky listened half-consciously as the drugs worked their way quickly through his system. They must have been...they must have been...what's the word…stronger! Stronger than normal drugs.

"They never told us his condition when they auctioned him off to us. That was their mistake. They will pay. But we can find another test subject, I already have my eye on one actually…" the man's voice trailed off as they walked away, leaving him to ride out the drugs on his own.


	13. Chapter 13

Finally, a few days later, T'Challa had gotten back with them about where the base was, and where he believed the other bases might be. Fury had assigned Steve, Natasha, and Clint to take out the bases, even though it did take a few hours to convince Clint to come back. They had found 3 bases in a week and attacked all three, bringing all of their test subjects back to the Avengers compound at night-luckily, FRIDAY thought the civil war was stupid and didn't alert Tony to their presence-and killed all of the scientists and soldiers for Phantom. Even if they weren't there on their own, it was still a fate worse than death to be kept by any of those radical groups.

And so, that was how they spent the next week-finding all of the Phantom bases they could and reducing them to rubble.

His muscles were very slowly healing back together, so he could actually get up with the help of the dumpster. Except the infection in his eye was definitely causing a lack of strength. He could only stand for a few seconds before his strength gave out again, sending him crashing to the ground, and there was no way he was walking even a few steps. So, mostly, he stayed where he was, not using his left shoulder for absolutely anything and keeping his eyes closed most of the time. The little time his eyes were open, he saw things. Flipping terrifying hallucinations that somehow managed to scare the crap out of a hardened assassin. It was fever, he knew somewhere in the back of his mind, but that really didn't help.

So he kept his eyes shut.

This didn't help in the occasions of a passerby, well, passing by, or when groups of teens decided to have fun and mess with him. But he was content to ignore them and just let them believe that he was just another drunk homeless dude in the streets of New York.

New York. He knew there was something special about the place, but every time he would try to connect a face or name to place, his thoughts would slip again, and he would fall back into fever-induced, nightmare-filled sleep.

What was so special about New York?

There was a person, he knew, somebody who connected him to this place. He couldn't recognize any of the little of the city he saw, however, so it must have been different back when he was there.

But that was how he would fill the three days. Slipping in and out of consciousness, trying to remember-and trying not to remember-and trying to evade police capture. Not that many policemen cared about homeless drunks. Which was good.

A day after removing the implants, he could feel his left eye crusted over with infection and the coughing started. Two days later, he woke up to find his left collarbone swollen and discolored, painful to even look at wrong.

And three days later, the boys came.


	14. Chapter 14

Sam made his somewhat-daily rounds of the Brooklyn alleys, hoping that just maybe Bucky had made it back.

It really was peaceful-sort of, if you didn't count the constant hypervigilance and taking in every single detail and noting all the other people on the street and scanning for threats and-

Okay, not really peaceful at all then. But probably as peaceful as it was going to get working for SHIELD or the Avengers or whatever they were calling themselves these days.

A group of loud voices and crowing laughter distracted him from this thoughts. Teenage boys, probably hassling some homeless guy. He raced to where the voices came from, eager for some action.

"Okay, I don't know what you're doing out of school," he said, keeping an eye on the man curled up in the corner they were all focused on, "but I'll give you five seconds to get out of here before I send you back."

The biggest one, and probably the leader of the posse, sauntered over. "And how do you plan to do that, skinny?"

He rolled his eyes and held out his hands disarmingly. "Look, I don't want to hurt you-"

The big guy cut him off with a clumsy swing. Sam easily dodged it and put the kid in a headlock. "I just want you to go away," he finished nonchalantly. The kid struggled for a few moments, threw some inexperienced elbows and feet, but quickly accepted his fate and slumped, defeated. He motioned with his foot for the others to get out of there, and only once Sam was sure the others were gone did he let him go. "Get to school, kid!"

Sam turned his attention to the person the kids had been whaling on. He was lying still, probably unconscious.

The moment he crouched next to the man, intending to find out who he was and where he came from, a hand shot out from the lump on the ground and wrapped around his neck, attempting to choke him. The hold was far too weak to do any damage, but he let it stay there so the person wouldn't feel as defenseless and threatened.

"Hey, it's okay, I'm here to help. I'm Sam Wilson, and I'm not gonna hurt you, I promise. Think you could tell me your name?"

A terrified blue eye cracked open under the dark, scruffy hair across his face. "Go...away," he whispered, taking a labored breath between the words.

No. Hold on. He definitely recognized that voice, and the hair, and the eyes. He glanced at the man's left arm to make sure, and-yep, there was the telltale gleam of metal.

"Bucky, it's me, Falcon. I'm on your side, don't worry." Sam attempted to loosen Bucky's grip on his windpipe and turn him to look for any injuries, but a feral snarl stopped him.

Anger and unrecognition flashed in his blue eyes. His hold tightening, he growled, "That's not my name. Who are you?"

"Bucky-"

"That's not my name!" Sam coughed and winced as the grip around his throat tightened even more, wishing he'd been a bit more careful before. A few drops of blood dripped to the pavement, and Sam noticed the long gash on Bucky's wrist.

"Look, my name is Sam Wilson. I work with the Avengers, and I fought with you and Steve in a battle. Do you remember Steve Rogers? Captain America? He was your friend back in 40s Brooklyn. All of us were arrested and we got you back after that crazy dude did his thing on you. But we were helping you, and I promise I'm not here to hurt you right now. I just want to get you some help," he spouted, trying to convince Bucky he was no threat.

The eyes bore into his own with intensity, and he willed the man on the ground to recognize him, even just a little bit. After what seemed like an eternity, his hand loosened and dropped to the ground. "Sam?" he whispered.

"Yeah, it's me. It's okay, I just want to help you. Is that okay? Do you trust me?"

After a few moments of tense silence, he nodded and closed his eyes, finally relaxing. Sam knew how much this was a show of trust-completely relaxed and vulnerable in his presence, not even watching him. Taking advantage of the moment, he broke out of his thoughts and turned Bucky onto his back, so he could look for any other injuries. The moment he made contact with the ground, he hissed a pain-filled breath out, and Sam braced a hand between the ground and his shoulders to keep him from touching the ground and hurting more than he already was.

He quickly examined for injuries, and not finding any more significant than the wrist slash, put pressure on that to keep it from bleeding any more.

"I'm gonna need to get you to the hospital before any of this gets worse," he murmured, being sure not to scare Bucky with his voice.

Speaking of which, his eyes flashed open, wide and unseeing. "No!" he exclaimed. "No hospitals, please, please..." His words dissolved into choked sobs and incoherent, frantic Russian.

"Okay, okay, no hospitals, I promise. None of those. You're safe. You're safe."

His sobs turned into hacking coughs that wracked through his body until his skinny frame shuddered with the effort of breathing. His panicky breaths quickly evened as he passed out.

Sam thoughtfully stroked the tangled, dark hair out of Bucky's face. He definitely needed to get medical help, especially because he saw the spray of blood with each cough, increasing near the end. It wasn't too old, because he was still alive and breathing and not drowning in his own blood. Probably from those kids beating on him. For a moment, he wished that he had taken the chance to make the headlock a little more painful.

But first, he could probably pull some strings and get some VA doctors to do a housecall. And some transportation.

The first time he woke up, he had no idea where he was.

Some kind of bedroom, but the nicest one he's ever seen.

There were at least three people in the room, way too loud. All the lights on, too much for his overwhelmed senses.

There was a voice right behind him, and frantic beeping to his left.

Medical equipment-

An oxygen mask-

No.

Not the gas again. Not the gas again. He opened his eyes, saw white cloudy shapes. Not the gas again.

He tried to pull it off, but he couldn't even feel his fingers. It was already active, already paralyzing him, couldn't move, couldn't fight, was being turned into a monster and he couldn't even stop it-

"Bucky? Bucky, it's okay, you're okay, calm down, you're safe."

He couldn't remember, couldn't think, absolutely nothing-

He ripped the oxygen mask off with his other hand, thankful that the gas hadn't went that far. Tried to pull the IV leads out of his arm and hand, the tube in his ribs, desperate to not change any more. He didn't want to kill. Didn't want to hurt anyone. Didn't want-

"No, no, please…" he tried to say, his voice shaky, unsteady, weak, just like him-

Two hands wrapped around his waist, restrained one of his arms, plugged the IVs back in-

He pushed them away, tried to, struggled against the hold, before another spread of cold and weakness drowned him, stilling his protests. "Sergeant Barnes, you're okay. You're at Mr. Wilson's home, and we are trying to help you. If you could please hold still, you can be back asleep in no time."

"Please don't, please…" His other arm wasn't being held by the man behind him, so he pulled it away, he couldn't feel it, he tried to move his shoulder but it sent burning pain through his side. Somebody approached, and he tried to throw an arm to defend himself. He couldn't pull his arm away from behind him though, trapped in the man's harsh hands, steel grip, keeping him from freedom, from memories, from himself-

There was a stab in his ribs, the person bending over him, hovering, and he collapsed into sobs and bloody coughs, his struggles weakening every second, and finally the world blackened around him.

Sam held on to Bucky, making sure he didn't pull any stitches or the IV leads out. Whatever had happened put him in a terrible place, mentally and physically. The worst was probably the mental wounds, and then in second place was the damage to his left arm, ear and eye where he had tried to pull the prosthetic and the implants out. Sam had found the implants not too far away from him, crushed and probably thrown. It would be very difficult to try and fix all the damage in his eye; unless Stark could figure out some way to fix it, there was no way they were going to save it.

They were already attempting to fix his arm, keeping him mostly pain-free while opening it up enough to try and reset the bones. They had no access to general anesthetic yet, though, so Sam was sitting the way he was for more than just to help both himself and Bucky to feel better. He had to try to keep him still until they could put him all the way to sleep.

Grace ran in suddenly, drawing away his attention. "Daddy, you're home!"

His charge's eyes flew open in blurry panic, jerking away from the kid running toward him. Grace stopped and stared, alarmed.

"N-Natalia?" Bucky whispered in shock. He tensed, and Sam tightened his hold.

"Daddy? What's going on?" Grace brushed her dark hair back from her face and stared wide-eyed first around the room, then straight at Sam.

"Hun, it's okay. I'm just helping him out. It's fine. This is Bucky. I've told you about him before, remember?"

Grace took a step forward, saying hi at the same time that someone else burst through the door, holding an IV bag.

"We've got the drugs!" she shouted in relief, wild red hair bouncing everywhere. She rushed to the right side of the bed, starting to fix to bag to the pole.

Sam rolled his eyes. Every single time! Bucky jerked his arm out of Sam's hold and leapt off the bed, falling to the ground when his legs wouldn't support him. He scrambled into the corner as fast as he could with only one working arm and two bad legs now. Sam grabbed a blanket and sighed, attempting to wrap it around Bucky without getting his eyes clawed out with the wildly flailing right arm. He was finally able to pin his arm down with the blanket, holding him while one of the nurses approached him warily with a syringe of the new sedatives. It took a few minutes, but the sedative finally caused Bucky to crumble into Sam's arms, asleep. Sam stayed there, carding his fingers through his long, unkempt hair and trying not to let the nurses wake him up while putting all of the IV leads back in. There were a lot too, antibiotics, pain meds, fluids, normal sedatives that obviously didn't work on supersoldiers. All of it was pretty necessary, they had reasoned, even for someone like him, especially with the damage they had noticed.

"Mr. Wilson? We won't be able to treat him properly here. Is it alright if we bring him to the VA? We have better equipment there, and better medicines."

Sam dropped his chin and widened his eyes, incredulous. "Look, if he goes to the hospital, it's not going to be pretty. You realize he was captured and experimented on by someone similar to Hydra. If you can do anything else here, do it."

"We've done everything we can, Mr. Wilson. In order to further fix his arm and ear, we need to operate at the VA. I'm sorry, but there's nothing more we can do."

Sam sighed. He couldn't bring to Avengers tower to the medbay, because the issue of Bucky was still too fresh. So if nothing else could be done here, he would have to bring him to the hospital.

"Fine, fine. Do what you have to."


	15. Chapter 15

Waking up, breathing hard, drenched in sweat. He identified why immediately-nightmare. But what was it again?

He was stuck in the Hydra labs, their guinea pig, being tested on and experiments and in so much pain all the time-

He tried to breathe, to stop hyperventilating, get his heart rate back to normal.

Where was he again?

Hospital room. He swallowed hard, fear rising in the pit of his stomach. He gripped the sheets, trying to calm down again.

White walls. Beeping...somewhere. There were needles in his hand and elbow. He followed them with his right eye, undamaged, and found the drug bags.

No.

He ripped out the needles with his teeth after trying to move his-nonexistent!-left arm.

Why was he in the hospital?

He could feel bandages on his eye, ear, left shoulder, and around his legs. What?

He pushed himself up, something heavy and dark in his head, like someone else was there. It was pushing to break free, its pulls stronger with his fear. He shook his head, trying to clear it, but the drugs were clouding his mind and he couldnt think and still couldnt remember why he was here and-

Footsteps.

His head exploded with the darkness coming to life, consuming.

Mission: Escape.

It made an attempt to stand up off the bed, but its legs collapsed and it barely caught itself with its arm before falling.

Injuries: Severed left arm, severed Achilles tendon in both ankles, severed hamstring muscles in both thighs, unusable left ear, unusable left eye. Condition: disapproved. Mission in peril. Movement: Approved.

It crawled forward to a cabinet. It must find a crutch to complete the mission. It swung open the cabinet door, finding a crutch to escape with.

Threat approaching. Position: 2. It stood up, using the crutch a considerable amount. Multiple threats approaching. Position: 1. It tried to lean against the wall with no help from the crutch. Failed for t=5 seconds. Multiple threats approaching. Position: 12.

Threat 1 approached with hands raised. Weapons nonexistent. Recommendation: evade and knock out. It slammed the threats head against the wall, and as he was doubled over, it put the threat in a sleeper hold, knocking him out quickly, less than five seconds for the maneuver.

Threat 2 approached more cautiously, tried to get behind the Asset, but it refused to allow him to, circling. The threat attempted to jab out at the Asset, but it blocked and returned with a blow to the head, knocking him out also.

More threats appeared and approached from several positions, and with it unable to properly protect itself and evade capture, it was unsure of how to complete the mission. It felt weak-could not be weak-was weak from the injuries. Condition: disapproved. Mission unfulfilled. Movement: approved. It swung the crutch at somebody's ankles, sent them sprawling. Sent another one to the ground with a punch the temple.

By then two people had moved behind him, it tracking their movements, and whirled, swaying when a wave of dizziness stilled its turn. They grabbed its arm and swung it around a neck, attempting to support him. They were going to take it back to the chair! He had just gotten out of cryo, and they had another mission for him, they were erasing his memories, going to brainwash him again and he couldn't do it anymore and please-

Its eyes shot open and it was panicking, could not panic, panicked and they were gripping it tight, taking away its crutch, one was getting a needle from his pocket. It squirmed, trying to get away, no drugs please no, but of course their grips were too tight and its legs were too unsteady and then someone walked in with a tray.

"Oh hell no! I was gone for five minutes! Five minutes, guys! Surely you could have done something else. Bucky, you're okay, I promise…"

As the man injected it with the drugs, the new guys' voice faded out for a moment. A new voice in its head took over, pushed him out gently.

He slumped in their arms, weakened and exhausted. They struggled under the new deadweight, but as he tried to take his body weight back off of them, his knees crumpled and he hit the floor. The new guy helped support him, tried to get him back to the bed, and he briefly resisted before realizing the man was a friend. What was his name? Didn't matter. Not a threat, and so he complied, stumbling and limping towards the bed, then kneeling in front of it. He took a mission without being commanded, so surely there would some kind of punishment. His handlers didn't allow him to stand during punishment; he needed to be vulnerable for them to be happy with it. And when the handlers were happy, one of his side missions was fulfilled.

"Bucky, what are you doing? You need to get in bed."

Did he not understand? The Other was clamoring, yelling that he was its-his-handler, to treat him as such, and so it-he-would speak to him as though he were a handler.

"It has taken a mission without being told to do so. It must be punished." It-he-was swaying slightly on unsteady knees. "You are its current handler. It must be punished by the handler."

It-he-had to catch itself on its hands as its legs gave out again, the wounds likely reopened. Condition-disapproved.

Its handler dropped to his knees in front of it. It resisted to urge to look in its handler's eyes, already knowing what would happen if it did.

"Look, I'm not your handler. I promise, I'm just a friend. A concerned friend who was here with you because Steve is off busting Phantom arse. And I'm not going to punish you for anything you did. You did nothing wrong. And you are not an it. Look at me, Bucky," he said, his tone straining. It still did not look him in the eye. "Look at me. Come on." He took its face in his hands. "You. Are. Not. An. It. You are a person, no matter how much Hydra dehumanized you, and that includes referring to yourself in the first person and not expected punishment every time you turn around. I promise I will never punish you for anything, okay? Come on, you should get in bed now."

He tried to comply, but found that he didn't have the strength to get up, thanks to the drugs. His world began to blacken at the edges, and he opened his eyes wider, desperate to feel this closeness for as long as he could. The nice guy slid in beside him so he was sandwiched between the bed and the nice guy's body. It was so warm and comforting and there was some instinct that made him relax into the other guy's hold, boneless. He stayed that way, Sam-that was his name!-holding him up and close to the warmth of his body, until the blackness took over and he fell asleep.

Sam remained still for a while, letting Bucky get some peaceful, nightmare-free sleep. The nurses had plugged all the monitoring equipment in and taped the IV leads back on after he fell asleep, so he could start the healing process again. This was the closest he'd been to somebody besides Riley in a long time. He remembered lying like this on Sam's couch on base, watching movies together and being happy to just be in each other's presence. He would've denied it then, but their relationship was more than platonic. They had gotten to be a lot closer than the other partner pairs on base, probably because of their shared difficulties with PTSD. They were the only two who knew exactly how to act around each other and help each other through situations. And Bucky and Riley were actually so similar that he was using some of the same methods with Bucky that he did with Riley. Both men had the dehumanizing factor, thanks to bad foster parents and Hydra, and so he knew how to help Bucky better than Steve probably did.

Bucky tensed and made a distressed sound, alerting Sam to another nightmare.

"Hey, it's alright, you're safe here, you're with me, not them, you're okay," Sam whispered, rubbing a hand up and down Bucky's back soothingly. He sighed and relaxed deeper into Sam's arms, burying his nose in Sam's neck and wrapping a hand around his waist.

Apparently their relationship wasn't as platonic and Sam would like to believe, either.

Or maybe it was, and he was just misinterpreting the signs and projecting his feelings on Bucky like an a-hole.

He really had no idea, and didn't really want to talk to anybody about it, either. Nobody else had any idea that he had feelings for Riley, and he sure wasn't opening that can of worms again.

He stayed like that for a few hours, watching nurses come in and check on vitals and making sure he brought Bucky out of any nightmares before they scared him awake. The man was so touch-starved he wouldn't think of moving him. At least, not until a doctor wanted him to.

"You want me to do what?"

"I need to get him back in the bed so we can better monitor him, but we need you to stay in here with him. Before he woke up the first time, his vitals were all over the place for whatever reason. Since you two have been together, he's been a lot more steady and actually starting to heal well."

"Do you mean like, in the room or in the bed? Because I don't think that's the best option. I can stay down here with him."

"This is a hospital. We can't have a patient sleeping on the floor, no matter how comfortable he looks." He really did look comfortable. And very unlike his assassin mode. He's so cute when he's asleep. "Either you get up there with him and keep him asleep and still, or we induce a medical coma, which doesn't guarantee no nightmares, or we use restraints to keep him from pulling anything out again. That stunt he pulled, getting out of bed and fighting like that? It could have set his discharge time back a few days, or even a week."

"No coma. Please? I don't want him stuck in a nightmare he can't get away from. I'll stay with him, okay? Just, no comas. Steve Rogers, you know, Captain America, would be very disappointed in you all. You don't want Captain Rogers to be disappointed in you. He has very good puppy dog eyes when he's disappointed and sad because his best friend since childhood is in a coma."

"No comas if we can help it. Okay. We can't promise he won't enter one himself, because of how badly he's injured, but if we can get the infection stopped soon, there is less of a chance that he will. We've put him on strong antibiotics because of the infection in his eye and shoulder, but we will probably have to use a larger or different dose because of the impenetrability of his immune system. The results aren't going to be fun, but hopefully he will get better soon. His doctor is putting him on a combination of Glinozine and Abelmethate, which are the strongest antibiotics approved for human use right now. If they don't work, nothing will. Or, at least, nothing that we have access to. We have no idea what the side effects might be, so you will need to watch him carefully and make sure nothing bad happens while we are out. I'm going to have a nurse in here almost constantly to make sure he stays alright. He should be okay. He's obviously strong."

Speak of the devil. About that time, his good eye fluttered open, the blue dull with fever. Sam smiled and stroked the hair out of his face.

"Sergeant Barnes, how are you feeling?"

He curled up tighter into Sam. "Like shit," he whispered, voice hoarse. The nurse filled a paper cup with water and gave it to Sam, tipping the cup into Bucky's dry mouth. He swallowed gratefully, finishing the cup, and Sam gave it back to the nurse. Bucky's fingers twitched, and he started pulling lightly at the tube in his ribs.

"Sir, please leave that alone. Its for your health," the nurse said after a moment.

He huffed and reluctantly stopped, curling his hand into Sam's neck.

"Hey buddy, you have to get into that bed over there. Think you can do that if we help you?" Sam asked gently.

His breath hitched. "They gonna tie me down?"

"No, kid. No, as long as I'm here with you whenever you wake up, it'll be okay. They won't use restraints."

He hesitated for a moment. "I'll try."

"I'm gonna be there with you, bud, so you won't wake up alone. And I'm gonna keep the nightmares away like I did before."

The nurse watched as Sam and Bucky readied their aching limbs for movement, getting them awake again and not tingling. Sam was in a crouch beside him, lightly supporting him as he got back on his knees. The nurse got in on his other side, his good side, Sam refusing to let a stranger get personal with his bad side. They lifted him together and settled on the bed, Sam getting in on his right side so the nurses and doctor would have free access to his busted collarbone and eye.

The doctor came in then, holding a few bags of some kind of drugs, and Sam felt Bucky tense.

"All we're giving you is a very strong antibiotic and painkillers. And yes, you need the painkillers to sleep, and sleep is important for healing," the nurse commented before he could say anything.

"I've slept with worse," he muttered grumpily.

"I'm sure you have, Sergeant Barnes, but you don't need to, now."

He huffed and held out his right arm, waiting for them to get the drug bags hooked up and IV ready. The nurse found a vein and slid the needle in, and Bucky didn't even flinch, a mark of how relaxed he was now. Probably Sam's doing, the way they were curled up on the floor before and now on the bed. Very un-platonic. Steve would be scandalized, unless they did the same thing when they were younger in the 20s and 30s. Which, considering how close Steve talked about them being, it was probable.

Once his eyes were half-shut from the painkillers and need for sleep, the doctor and nurse explained that they needed to check the bandages, and proceeded to annoy the crap out of Bucky with all their poking at his injuries. Of course, he wasn't completely conscious for this, as the drugs were making him almost sleep, but their messing kept him from falling asleep faster, which made him very annoyed.

"Get offa me," he finally muttered, wrapping his right arm around Sam and snuggling deeper into him. That just made the doctor annoyed, afraid he was going to rip out his IV, and so the nurse watched in amusement as the doctor berated Bucky for making his life even more difficult than it already was.

"Jus' wanna sleep."

"What an attitude change, huh? Look, you're going to sleep soon, we just have to finish gathering your vitals. We're almost done." The nurse reached over Sam and stuck a thermometer in Bucky's ear, making him flinch.

The doctor wrapped a blood pressure cuff around his arm and inflated it, and he flopped his head down on the pillow and groaned. "Come on, man."

After he was done taking his blood pressure, the doctor told him he was done, changed settings on the monitor, and left. Julian, the nurse's name tag said, sat inside the door on the chair, and the two tried to fall asleep.

Steve rushed into the hospital, relieved to find someone at the front desk.

"Where is Sergeant Barnes? I need to find him!"

"I can't tell you yet, sweetie. I need your information first," she replied gently.

"Steve Rogers, ma'am. I don't know what else you need."

She blinked up at him. "You're Captain America?"

"Yes!"

She lowered her head and looked up at him skeptically. "Can I see some ID?"

He rolled his eyes and fished out his wallet, showing her his SHIELD issued ID that Fury told him was still valid.

She took it and stared at it for a second. "Are you family?"

"Not biologically, but we are in other ways! Come on, just let me see him. It's been over a month!"

She stared at him. "Fine. Room 312. That's on the third floor, sweetie."

He rushed toward the elevator.

"Not for too long! And don't run in the halls!" she shouted after him.


	16. Chapter 16

He slowly walked into room 312, ecstatic yet reluctant. He knew Bucky wouldn't want Steve to see him when he was in the hospital, never liking to appear weak in front him, even with a cold. Obviously, that trait would be brought out even more after what happened with Hydra.

But he couldn't just not see him! That would be ridiculous. They were friends! And Steve had just let him be taken by another Nazi radical group, so of course he couldn't just leave him in the hospital, alone and probably terrified.

And then he saw Sam.

 _What_ …?

They were laying together in the hospital bed, curled around each other like they were afraid of being taken away from each other.

Their eyes opened at the same time, and they scooted apart briefly.

"No, it's...it's alright, you guys can keep sleeping or whatever you were doing."

"I don't think either of us were sleeping," Sam muttered.

"I like your bird, Steve," Bucky whispered, doped up on painkillers.

"Yeah, I can tell." Steve let out a soft chuckle at Sam's blush.

"This isn't what it looks like-" Sam intervened.

"It's okay, I promise. I'm not assuming anything. I'm happy to see you two getting along."

"Come 'ere, Stevie," Bucky whined. "Come sleep with us."

Sam chuckled at the unintended innuendo. Steve blushed and slowly came over to the other side of the bed, gingerly climbing in and being careful not to dislodge anything. He slid under the drain tube and sidled up to Bucky, assuming a position not unlike what they used to do in the winters, trying to conserve heat. There was a satisfied sound from next to him, and Steve sighed happily.

And finally, for the first time in a few months, all three were able to sleep peacefully.

A few hours later, the doctor came in again and attempted to take Bucky's vitals when he was still asleep. This, of course, was a bad choice.

As soon as the doctor's fingers touched Bucky's bandaged wrist to take his pulse, his hand shot up and nearly strangled the doctor. As soon as he moved, Sam woke up, and, seeing this, he purposely did not freak out-because he's seen this before-and instead put a calming hand on his shoulder to wake him up and get him to realize what he was doing, and that he was in the presence of friends and not enemies.

Because the first thing he saw when he opened his eyes was a man in lab coat hovering over him, this cemented the assumption that he was with enemies, and Sam's reassurances did nothing to help.

This is when the nurse ran over with a sedative and put Bucky back to sleep so the doctor wouldn't die.

All in all, not his best experience waking up.

But, well, not the worst either, considering.

But the next time the doctor needed to get vitals, he woke Sam up first and told him to wake Bucky up so he he could get vitals.

It worked, was the most the doctor had to say about it, and he didn't almost-die that time, so he was happy.

Steve remained asleep through this whole process, mainly because he hadn't been touched and no noise had been made directed toward his side of the bed. But also because he hadn't had any good sleep in several months.

The next time Steve woke up, he could feel a very warm, very shaky presence pressed into his torso.

It took him a moment to realize that this was, in fact, Bucky, with a very elevated temperature.

Not the best thing to wake up to.

Also, he was shaking uncontrollably.

Also not the best.

Calling the doctor would probably be the best thing for him. So far, his movement hadn't woken up Sam, which was a little surprising.

Or maybe, since Sam chose that moment to sit up and press the call button on his side of the bed, the heat and shaking had in fact woken him up.

And also coughing now. Huh. That couldn't be good. What was this, pneumonia? He was on antibiotics, that shouldn't happen. Maybe.

Maybe things were different now. Maybe he already had pneumonia before Sam even brought him to the hospital.

He just didn't know. And not knowing was the worst.

The doctor chose that moment to rush in, a female nurse behind him. He pulled out a stethoscope and set it on Bucky's chest, listening intently. He motioned for Sam and Steve to sit him up, and they did so, the doctor listening as he breathed and coughed harshly. A hand was wrapped around his torso, bracing himself as the coughs racked his body.

The doctor snapped the stethoscope back around his neck. "His pneumonia's gotten worse," he explained in a clipped tone. "I think it's the antibiotics. We can't be sure, because there's only been a few rounds of testing, but it's probably the medicine, along with how long he was out there for. Reynolds, I need a chest x-ray and a CBC done. We need to know what we're fighting. Julian, get some ice. We need to bring his fever down."

"Yes, doctor," the two nurses said in unison, and left out the door in different directions.

"You two," the doctor said, pointing at Sam and Steve, "need to keep him upright until Reynolds gets back. Keep him calm so he doesn't aggravate his injuries."

"Got it."

As the doc left the room, muttering to himself, Bucky's coughs stopped with a groan.

"Hey, you're okay," Sam said, rubbing his back. "It's gonna be fine. You're in the hospital with Steve and I, and the doctor needs some stuff from you, but I promise that you're safe." As Sam continued to speak soothing words, Reynolds came back in with a wheelchair.

"I need to take him to X-Ray to see how much fluid is in his lungs. One of you two can come with us, so you'll have to choose."

"You go," Steve and Sam said in unison.

"He needs you right now, okay? He's had enough of me," Sam said in the brief silence afterward.

Steve just nodded and gently lifted his friend off the bed and into the wheelchair. He whined his protest at being manhandled but didn't struggle, which was good. Didn't hurt his lungs anymore than they already hurt.

After Reynolds pushed the wheelchair out, Sam wandered around the room aimlessly, remaking the bed and straightening up the table. He really had no idea what to do. Somehow, he had thought it wouldn't be possible for the supersoldier to get sick, but apparently he was wrong. He should have known that when even Steve got beat eventually, and almost died. He hadn't thought it was possible then, and it happened. He hadn't thought it was possible here, and it happened. Was he sensing a theme there?

And his feelings for the man. That was irresponsible and irrational. He shouldn't be feeling that way, because one, it was unnatural, two, it was cruel to try to love a man who had been betrayed by those he trusted, and three, if he was going to help Bucky on the psychological side, it was wrong. He needed to keep distance.

But he couldn't. He really really couldn't. There was no way he was going to be able to distance himself emotionally from the man who just really needed love, and touch, and to be humanize again, everything that Sam could provide.

But he needed it from his friend, from Steve, from the one that had shared experiences from back in the day.

He couldn't have this relationship. Really. It was impossible. And what would the others think about it? They would be scandalized! Steve would probably be mad at him, and he really didn't want a captivity buddy mad at him.

But...he was so tired of denying himself in favor of everybody else. He was so tired of getting rid of his feelings just to spare everyone else's. He just couldn't do it anymore.

Fine. Fine. He would just play this out until they left the hospital, and then it would probably go away. It was just a crush, right? Right?

No. He'd had crushes before. This was deeper. This was long lasting.

This was going to get them in trouble someday.

So he sat on the chair by the bed and waited for them to come back.


	17. Chapter 17

Bucky woke up a few times that night out of dreams, confused and aggressive, but together Sam and Steve were able to get him to calm down back to sleep. They both knew it was a side effect of the painkillers, but neither wanted him to be on any weaker ones. Once he could actually stay awake for more than a few minutes at a time, Steve had agreed to discuss the matter with him and find out what Bucky wanted.

At least, until the morning actually came. He finally had a nightmare he couldn't be awakened from, and there was yelling, and tears, and pinning down of limbs. Mostly Bucky doing the yelling (in Russian) and tears, and mostly Steve doing the pinning down of limbs while Sam spoke softly and tried to calm him down.

It was slowly working until a doctor in the hall heard the noise and ran in the door, pulling out a syringe full of (most likely) sedatives and tried to jab it in Bucky's trembling right arm. This, of course, was a bad idea, and Bucky lunged up, grabbed the doctor by the neck, and slammed him down on the end of the bed, yelling at him violently in Russian and choking the man. Steve had learned Russian while looking for Bucky after the events in DC, so what he could understand was this: "DO YOU WANT ME TO DO WHAT YOU DID TO ME? GIVE ME ONE REASON WHY I SHOULDN'T! GIVE ME ONE REASON WHY I SHOULD SPARE YOU! WHY I SHOULDN'T RIP YOUR SOUL OUT, TORTURE YOU UNTIL YOU! ARE! LIFELESS!"

This, of course, was punctuated by coughs and other yelling by Sam and Steve himself, so he wasn't absolutely sure that his translation was correct.

But he was pretty sure it was. And it threw him off. Threw him off so much that he just lost the strength to pull his friend off the dying doctor.

Until Sam slapped him and told him to pull himself together.

So they never really got around to that talk Steve was supposed to have with Bucky.

Obviously.


	18. Chapter 18

Finally, after Steve pried Bucky's hands off the doctor's neck-which was very difficult, Steve would like to add-Sam got the bright idea to sing to try to calm him down. That's what his mom used to do, that's what Riley used to do, that's what he did with Riley, so experience says it would work here too.

So, while Steve was gripping Bucky's hand to keep him from going after the doctor again, and while Bucky was sobbing, rocking on his knees, and occasionally lunging to get away from Steve, Sam sang softly.

"Hold on to me as you go, as we roll down this unfamiliar road."

By the end of the first two lines, Bucky had stopped trying to escape Steve's hold, instead startling and listening intently. Steve had looked at him quizzically after a few words, but his eyes were soft.

"And though this wave is stringing us along, just know you're not alone, 'cause we're gonna make this place your home."

The sobs had turned to occasional sniffling by this point. Steve began to hum along, and both of them seemed to have calmed down by then. The doctor had readied another syringe of Steve's version of sedative by this time, and Bucky tensed up when he felt the needle enter his skin, but he didn't go after the doctor again, this time opting to lean full body into Sam. Sam tried to push his considerable weight back onto Steve, not wanting to get too emotionally close to this man, but he relaxed a moment later and picked up the song again.

"Settle down, it'll all be clear, don't pay no mind to the demons; they fill you with fear. This trouble it might drag you down, if you get lost you can always be found. Just know you're not alone, 'cause I'm gonna make this place your home."

He was almost completely asleep by now, his eyes struggling to stay open. Sam slowly eased Bucky down onto the bed, and his eyes closed right away, instinctively curling around Sam's warmth. Steve laid down on the other side of him, and Doctor Pohl finally came in, checking on his vitals and making sure no stitches got ripped open. After fixing everything damaged in the struggle, he left then in peace to sleep. No more nightmares interrupted that morning, until finally he woke up and stayed awake.

"Mornin' sleepyhead," Sam said when Bucky opened his eyes again. Steve sat up on the other side of him and rubbed a hand through his hair. Natalie was already sitting up, not being able to get back to sleep after the events of the early morning, so while Steve left to go get his and Sam's traditional hospital breakfast and Natalie was on her tablet, Sam and Bucky had a Serious Talk.

"Look, I'm sorry about last night," Sam said, sighing.

"Why are you sorry? You didn't almost kill a doctor. That was me."

"I probably invaded some personal boundary of yours without asking by singing to you like that. And you didn't know that he wasn't a threat."

"My boundaries weren't respected for 70 years; I think I can handle you." Bucky rolled his eyes and Sam just huffed.

"But you shouldn't have to! I shouldn't be treating you like Riley. That's what I'm doing. My old pararescue buddy Riley, we had a really special relationship, and I'm treating you like I did him."

"What's wrong with that?"

"You aren't him, for once. You don't have the same feelings towards me that he did towards me, so the boundaries aren't gonna be the same. We need...we need to stay professional with our relationship for now if I'm going to help you at all."

Bucky put a hand on Sam's knee. "No, it's okay. I...I think I like you. I remember this feeling, how my old self used to feel about Steve. But now I'm feeling it for you, too. I think...I think I love you, Sam."

Sam's eyes flicked down to his lips for just a moment, but even after two months of captivity Bucky still caught the message.

They leaned in for the kiss, and neither one noticed when Steve smiled, standing at the doorway.

EPILOGUE

One month later, Bucky and Natalie were out of the hospital and relationships were repaired between Team Cap and Team Stark. After much talking and forgiveness and therapy and tears, finally, all was forgiven, and Stark was putting the finishing touches on Bucky's new arm.

"Barnes! Wilson! You ready?" Tony called into the hallway outside his workshop. Sam, Bucky, Natalie, and Grace were all there, being their lovey selves while the girls were playing tag or some equally crazy activity.

The established couple walked into the workshop and smiled at each other.

"It's going to be okay, I'll be right here the whole time. Do you trust us?" Sam asked.

"Yeah. Yeah I do." Bucky said after a moment's hesitation.

"Do you want to see the arm first, just so you can make sure it's what you want?"

The new arm looked like one off one of the Iron suits (obviously-look at who was making it!), except it was blue with black highlights instead of red and gold. No weapons in it, requested by the man himself. Best of all, the red star was replaced by a black Avengers symbol.

Yeah, they were gonna be alright.


End file.
